


Blackberry Mead

by dumb_gay_hoe



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29536074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumb_gay_hoe/pseuds/dumb_gay_hoe
Summary: Some musings around the Essexe arc.... no angst here ladies just a lot of piningEivor is a hoe and can’t make a decisionmostly just drunk shenanigans___Chapter 4:eivor makes friends in essexe and thinks about her relationship with randvi
Relationships: Eivor/Petra, Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	1. The domestic type

It was a dappled sort of day, quiet and cold but not unpleasant. Eivor sat by the docks, fiddling absentmindedly with her fishing line, her mind wandering. The better part of her clan was bustling around the longhouse, preparing for the evening’s feast. Tonight they welcomed Ubba Ragnarsson among them, who had arrived quite unexpectedly that afternoon. Usually she would be in the thick of things, carrying barrels of mead, corralling the children, helping Petra butcher the deer and pheasant. Yet Randvi had everything in hand (when did she not?) and Eivor had taken the opportunity to slip down to the docks and think on what Ubba had said.  
It was more what Ubba had given her that was the issue. She pulled the ring out of her pocket now. The silver was cold and heavy in her hand. Too big for her hands, but Gunnar could certainly do something about that. It was certainly too big for Petra, whose hands were callused but petite. Ubba had seemed awkward when he came to speak with her and it was only now, sitting by the riverside, that she realized the conversation was an attempt at a proposal. Damn it, Eivor, you could have let him down more gently. Ivarr had always told her that his brother was the domestic type.   
The proposal had led her to thinking about marriage, and marriage led her to thinking about Petra, which led her to worrying. They had been seeing each other for a year now, more or less, and most of Ravensthorpe expected them to make an announcement soon. It had happened almost unintentionally. It started with a hunting expedition which turned into a mushrooms-fueled chase through the woods which turned into a very passionate night in an abandoned farmhouse. Their next hunting expedition ended the same way, and the next, and the one after that. Things fell into place between them in a quiet way which Eivor never really understood and now Petra had her own chest at the foot of Eivor’s bed in the longhouse. They saw each other every night when Eivor was in Ravensthorpe. They ate breakfast together. They took Mouse on walks. They groused about Sigurd and his temper, and they sat by one another’s side at feasts. In short, Eivor was becoming the domestic type. Ivarr laughed at the thought of a dozen tiny Ubbas running around his brother, and Eivor sometimes even caught herself wondering about what it might be like to have a dozen tiny Eivors to tend.  
It wasn’t that she was unhappy with Petra. They had everything a couple should. Petra liked her independence and so did Eivor. She was great with animals, could hold her mead, and was an unparalleled shot. The sex was good – gods, she had even taught Eivor a few things. Everything felt so easy with her. A lifetime with her, growing old in Ravensthorpe together once England was pacified, would be no bad thing.   
Eivor flipped the ring over in her palm. There was a sweet breeze coming from the south, smelling of marigolds and rain. Tarben waved at her as he passed along the docks to his bakery and she acknowledged him with a smile. She could hear children playing up by the longhouse, a trilling songbird, and water lapping against the longships. She should stand up, stretch her legs, and walk between the golden trees and bramble bushes to the longhouse. Petra would come to greet her, wiping her knife on her trousers and standing on tiptoes to plant a kiss on her lips. She would help her butcher her prey from the day’s hunt, always throwing some scraps to the strays who gathered eagerly outside the doors. Randvi would summon them inside –   
Randvi. Eivor flipped the ring over in her palm again. Here was the sticking point, the thorn in the side of her domestic fantasies. Randvi would always be there, welcoming them to the longhouse, standing over the alliance map, reading letters late by candlelight. When the jarlskona had confessed her feelings to Eivor a year ago, she had gently but firmly denied her advances. At the time it seemed the obvious thing to do. Randvi was Sigurd’s wife, things were just starting with Petra, and she had no desire to risk their friendship.   
That afternoon, sitting in the sun-drenched tower, Randvi’s hair flaming in the sun and her voice lighter than Eivor had heard it in an age, she began to regret her decision. The regret had only deepened over the past year. Every time she saw Randvi she seemed to notice some new, maddeningly attractive feature, like the elegant tattoo along her jaw, or her long feathery lashes, or the way her slightly chapped lips looked when she smiled. When she called Eivor’s name, or when she jokingly called her “my lord”, the drengr felt a shiver along her spine. Sometimes the simplest question would leave her tongue-tied, recalling all the times over the years she had looked at Randvi and choked down her feelings.   
She wasn’t sure when it started, exactly. Randvi had been reserved when she came to Fornburg, six months before the wedding. Sigurd and a few raiders had been called away at Hjorr’s behest to solve a problem with some bandits, and somehow managed to extend his stay in the north well beyond the appointed date for his wedding, leaving Randvi alone and somewhat at odds in Fornburg. Raven clan feasts could be wild, and the woman had seemed uneasy. On quieter nights, Eivor sat with her and played Orlog. Randvi never let her win but let her get close enough to keep things interesting. Eventually the feasts did not seem so intimidating, and it was one of those wild nights the drengr had a serious lapse in judgement.   
They had been drinking the summer’s blackberry mead like it was water. It was late, the party had grown smaller, and there was the reassuring feeling that whatever words were said would be forgotten by the morning. When the warriors started calling for another barrel of Tekla’s finest, Randvi volunteered to fetch it, and Eivor tipsily volunteered to fetch another. They stumbled through the night to Tekla’s alehouse, empty now as everyone was gathered in the longhouse. The night was cold and Randvi pressed close to Eivor as the warrior fiddled with the key Tekla had given her. Tekla’s cellar was dark and cool and full of sweet woodsy smells. “Hm. I think this one should do. It’s just – “  
“A bit high for you? Come here, maybe you’ll reach it if you’re sitting on my shoulders,” Eivor laughed, reaching above Randvi’s head for the barrel.  
“I’m not that much shorter than you, Wolf-Kissed,” Randvi returned, shoving the warrior aside. “Look – I’m perfectly capable – it’s a matter of pride now – “ she protested in between increasingly desperate attempts to reach the barrel.  
“Come on, you stubborn little fool, you’ll be soaked in mead if you keep this up! Let me – “ Eivor began to reach again but stumbled, steadying herself against Randvi’s shoulder. Suddenly, without really thinking about it or even intending to, she found herself kissing Randvi, and perhaps more surprisingly, Randvi kissing her back. Eivor leaned against her, hands on her waist, feeling the warmth and the weight of her against the mead barrels. Randvi’s lovely slender fingers were tangled in her hair. She tasted like apples and blackberry mead. The drengr felt a heat building deep in her belly and wondered if this was what all kisses were supposed to feel like.  
The sound of footsteps above separated them instantly. “Eivor? Randvi? Have you gotten lost down there? Sigurd will have my head if I misplace his bride before the wedding!” Dag was waiting expectantly in the alehouse, eager to open the next barrel of mead.  
Afterwards they both did each other the courtesy of pretending that they were too drunk to remember that night in Tekla’s cellar. Dangling her legs just above the water, Eivor wondered if Randvi really had forgotten, or if she remembered that divine feeling, the thrill of a secret stolen kiss away from the clan and the burden of her duties. She hoped she did.


	2. Forget your sorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eivor receives some unwelcome news and Randvi helps her take her mind off things with some orlog and a lot of mead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a wholesome little girls night with ravensthorpe's ladies! what's better than gals being pals amirite

“How are you doing, Eivor?” It wasn’t so much the question that made her nervous as the anxious, intense look in Petra’s eyes, the fact that she had summoned her to the abandoned farmhouse to ask her, and the fact that Petra knew perfectly well how she was doing since they had breakfast together just two hours ago. Still, perhaps she was reading too much into this. _Deep breaths, calm thoughts, Eivor._

“I’m… fine? No different than this morning.” She put her hand over Petra’s, which was weirdly clammy. They were sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. The huntress had arrived early and lit a fire, which crackled gently as they spoke. “What’s this about, love?” No sense in beating about the bush.

Petra’s eyes were bright and she took a moment to steady herself before she spoke. “We need to talk.”

That was never a good sign. “We are talking. We don’t seem to be saying much, though,” Eivor quipped, affecting a smile which looked more like a grimace.

“I…. gods, you don’t make this easy, do you?” She returned Eivor’s smile halfheartedly and ran a hand fleetingly along her cheek. “I love you, Eivor, but I’m not _in love_ with you. You’re my best friend, you’re stunning and clever and everything I thought I wanted but I can’t… I can’t make myself fall in love with you. I thought I could, or that I could be happy spending the rest of my days with you, but there would always be some part of me that was unsatisfied. Gods, I’m sorry, love – “

The warrior was somewhat surprised to feel a lump growing in the back of her throat, and her voice was hoarser than usual when she spoke. “How long – how long have you been thinking about…” She’d been thinking about the same thing herself, but now that it was actually happening, it seemed a lot less like a good idea.

“It’s been on my mind for a while, but it was never the right time. Sigurd was taken, and then you were away again in Linconshire, and … well, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. Wallace told me that you had gone to see Gunnar about a ring and I didn’t want you to – “

“To make a fool of myself? More than I have already?” She hadn’t intended the words to come out so bitterly. Petra looked taken aback. “I’m sorry.” Removing her hands from Petra’s, she stood and started pacing the farmhouse.

“No, you have a right to be angry. I want you to understand that this isn’t your fault. I care for you but I don’t know if I want to be settled, not with you, not with anyone. Please, Eivor, I know you need some time, but I don’t want to lose you. You mean the world to me.”

Eivor nodded. She could feel her eyes begin to sting and spoke her next words quickly. “I need to go. We’ll speak – we’ll speak later.” She left the cabin as quickly as she could, hoping that Petra didn’t notice the way her voice broke. When she had ridden a safe distance from the farmhouse, she pulled her horse to a stop, curled her fingers in its mane, and cried.

\---

Randvi knew something was wrong as soon as her – no, the _raven clan’s_ – drengr stepped into the room. She practically slinked in, which was very unlike her, and immediately sat in the corner of the room, arms crossed and head bowed. If Randvi didn’t know better she would say that the clan’s most fearsome warrior was sulking. She pretended to busy herself with some letters for a moment before she looked over at the warrior. “Good afternoon, Eivor.” The words were pointedly polite.

“Hej, Randvi.” Eivor glanced at her briefly before returning her gaze to the floor. She looked upset, almost like she’d been crying. Randvi had never seen her cry, couldn’t even fathom what that might look like. She must be imagining things.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or would you rather sulk in silence?”

Eivor ignored her question and came to stand by the alliance map, fiddling absentmindedly with one of the raven figurines. “Give me something to do, Randvi. Tell me you have a monastery for me to raid, or some Saxons to subdue. The further from here, the better.”

“I thought you wanted to stay in Ravensthorpe for a while, wait for news of Sigurd, spend some time with Petra…”

She shook her head definitively. “It’s all over now. I need to feel the swan-road under me and a sea wind in my sails. Send me away somewhere, please.”

“Oh, Eivor….” Randvi put a comforting hand on her shoulder as she struggled with a torrent of emotions. Eivor seemed upset. This was terrible, of course. She had really liked Petra. Absolutely terrible. Yet there was a small, jealous part of Randvi which did not think it was terrible at all. 

The warrior brushed off her hand. “I don’t need anyone’s pity. It was mutual. We just decided that we needed some space from each other.” She straightened, still turning the raven figurine in her hand. “Though maybe she needed space a little more than I did.”

“So she – “

“Yes, Randvi, she ended things,” Eivor admitted ruefully. “I was thinking about it, but – “

Randvi couldn’t stop a slight smirk coming across her face. “You’ve never been rejected by a woman, have you? Your pride has been wounded, wolf-kissed.” She remembered how the women in Fornburg used to vie for the drengr’s attentions, loitering around the barracks and running to watch whenever she took to the ring in one of the warriors’ wrestling matches. The drengr had a habit of disappearing halfway through feasts in the company of one woman or another, and Randvi had noticed ill-concealed love bites on her neck on several occasions. They filled her with jealousy and a strange illicit excitement, wondering what it might feel like to leave some marks herself. 

“I’m usually the one doing the rejecting,” Eivor admitted sullenly. Randvi colored slightly, remembering that day at the tower, and the warrior’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean – “

She laughed it off, though the comment stung. “So, you look for a balm to heal your heart’s wounds. I don’t know if you’ll much enjoy the mission I have for you. It’s in Essexe.”

“What’s wrong with Essexe?”

“Nothing’s particularly wrong with Essexe, but the cost of an alliance there is separating the thegn Birstan from his wife and reuniting him with his childhood love. Not the best cure for a broken heart, perhaps.”

“I’m not brokenhearted, I’m just – fine.” She sighed. “By the time I reach Essexe I will have forgotten all about it. I’ll leave first thing tomorrow if my crew can be ready by then.”

“Good, that leaves tonight for some celebration. You’re a free woman now, Eivor. I suggest we gather up Birna, Tove, and several barrels of mead to mark the occasion in Vikingr fashion. Sulking doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Eivor grumbled, though Randvi had seen her eyes light up at the word mead. “And I’m not sulking. Let’s just sit and play some Orlog. I want to take my mind off things.”

They sat down in the main hall of the longhouse, quietly arranging the game pieces. “You remember when we used to do this back in Fornburg? You were so shy back then, I thought you might be a mute.”

“Ha! I’ve proved you wrong on that count. I haven’t played you in a long time. Perhaps you’ve improved, though I doubt it.”

“I’m not going to take two such blows to my pride in one day, table maiden. Come on, let’s bet. I win, and you have to deal with all the hunter deliveries for a month.”

“Fair enough. I win, and we crack open that barrel of Tekla’s mead.”

“I should have known you’d pull that trick, you sly fox. I’ve been playing Orlog in ale-houses all across this damn country, you should know you don’t stand a chance.”

“Don’t I?”, Randvi smirked. She rolled the dice and the match began. It was closer than she was accustomed to. Eivor’s brow was furrowed in concentration, and Randvi made a mental note to handle all hunter deliveries and business with Petra herself regardless of who won, at least until the drengr’s pride had healed. With a flourish, Randvi laid out her last set of dice. “Defeated again. The Saxons you’ve been practicing with must be poor players indeed.”

“I’m fated to an evening of mead and merriment, then.” She tried her best to sound disappointed, but Randvi could see a spark in her eye. “Wonder if Tekla has any of that blackberry mead brewing.”

\----

After the third horn of mead Randvi’s planned evening of revelry no longer seemed like a bad idea. At first she had been skeptical – Tove wouldn’t stop giving her pitying looks and Birna seemed a bit too gleeful at the prospect of a newly single Petra. When Randvi suggested a drinking contest Eivor was only too happy to drain her sorrows. Tove had beaten them all with ease, as usual, and now they were sitting around in a pleasant stupor while she regaled them with stories from the tattoo shop. “… and that’s not the worst of them. You wouldn’t believe the tattoo Bragi has on his bum.”

“Bragi has a tattoo on his bottom? Now I’ve heard everything,” Randvi laughed.

“Ssssh! I’m not supposed to tell anyone!”

“Too late for that now! Ha! I’ll ask him to show it off on our next raid, that’ll give him a shock…” Birna said. “It’s nothing like Eivor’s, I’m sure.” She smirked mischievously.

“Birna!” Eivor could feel her cheeks burning. “Randvi doesn’t want to hear about _that_.” 

“What? I thought that was common knowledge by now!”, Tove cackled.

“Only after you told everyone,” Eivor grumbled. Randvi had looked tense for a moment, but she was laughing now. Gods, why did she feel so embarrassed? “I lost a bet with Vili. It was a long time ago.” Tove had told half of the Raven clan and the other half had heard it secondhand. Besides, there weren’t many secrets between her and her crew. You couldn’t hide much from one another after two weeks on the whale-road.

“Come, jarlskona, you’ve never seen the Wolf-Kissed’s bottom?”, Birna asked slyly. She had a smirk which Eivor was sorely tempted to punch off her face. Even after three horns of mead this was humiliating. It looked like a fourth was in order.

“It’s quite a sight to see,” Tove added. 

Randvi looked at her archly. “Somehow I’ve avoided that. You’ll have to tell me.”

Eivor put her head in her hands. “It’s just some runes….”

“Not just any old runes!” Birna cackled.

“Are you going to tell me what’s written on your bottom, or would you rather show me?” Randvi asked. She seemed more excited about that prospect than was strictly proper.

“Troll face…” Eivor mumbled. “Like I said, I lost a bet. I’m getting more mead.” She rose and dipped her horn into the mead barrel. Things seemed a little fuzzy. Thoughts of Petra seemed very far away indeed and she was somewhere between extreme embarrassment and excitement. Was it just Tekla’s brew, or was her brother’s wife being very forward? _Her brother’s wife_. She had to try and remember that. When she returned to the table, the damn woman was laughing in a singularly attractive way, tossing her red hair over her shoulder and raising a horn of mead to those perfect lips. Why did Sigurd have to marry someone so infuriatingly gorgeous?

“And you tattooed that, Tove? Some friend you are.”

“Of course! Eivor insisted, she’s a woman of her word. For what it’s worth, Vili would have had ‘arse-stick’ tattooed on his backside if he’d lost. Doubt that’d win him too many admirers.”

“Well, Troll-face here hasn’t fared too badly. Until now, at least!” Birna raised her mead-horn. “To our favorite drengr! Let’s hope she finds another woman soon, otherwise the rest of us won’t stand a chance!”

“To Eivor! Scourge of Mercia’s men, delight to their wives!”, Tove cheered.

“Eivor!”, Randvi echoed, draining the rest of her mead-horn. She smiled disarmingly as Birna brought her another drink. “Forget your sorrows, Wolf-kissed. Tonight we drink, and tomorrow you leave for fresh glories.” 

After several more horns of mead, forgetting her sorrows was no longer a problem. Tove had stumbled off home some hours ago, and they carried Birna back to the barracks shortly afterwards, singing nonsense as they stumbled through Ravensthorpe. Now they sat across from each other at one of the trestle tables, laughing at a joke that neither of them could remember, lips sticky with honey mead. There was a faint grey light in the hall, and everything was gripped with that peculiar damp cold which only comes in the very early hours of the morning. “You’ve had your mead and merriment, Randvi. We’d better get you off to bed. There’s much for you to do tomorrow - those letters won’t read themselves.”

“Who needs bed? This bench is good enough for me,” she protested.

“Come now, Ravensthorpe’s jarlskona can’t be laying her head to rest in a mead-hall. I’ll carry you if I have to,” Eivor said lightly. Randvi did seem very drunk, but Eivor wasn’t in much better shape. _I’ll sleep on the longship_ , she told herself. Birna could do the navigating.

“Mmm. You might have to.” Randvi leaned back with a tantalizing smile which gave Eivor a funny tingling feeling in her chest. “If you’re strong enough, that is.”

In a few strides, Eivor was at her side and gently but swiftly swung the jarlskona over her shoulder. Randvi let out a surprised gasp and began to giggle. “Don’t make me laugh, Randvi. You’re light as a feather.” The feeling of Randvi so close to her, her laughter in Eivor’s ear, the smell of woodsmoke and mead… suddenly thoughts of loyalty and her being Sigurd’s wife seemed very distant indeed. She swallowed hard and made her way through the war room to Randvi’s chamber, trying to think of her absent brother. _It’s not the right time. She is married. And you are very drunk._

After stumbling against the alliance map and bumping Randvi’s head against the doorway, Eivor finally set her down on her bed. Randvi was still laughing as the drengr laid her down against a pile of furs. “Is this how you take all your women to bed, wolf-kissed?”

She was sitting beside her now, her hands leaning beside Randvi’s shoulders. The other woman had taken off her outer garments when they had returned from the barracks and was now in a thin linen tunic. Eivor could see the freckles on her chest and felt her breath hitch in her throat. Randvi’s hand was resting on her thigh, her fingers playing gently with the hem of her tunic. She took a deep breath and put her hand on Randvi’s cheek. “Hm. Sometimes.” Gods, she had such beautiful lips. She wondered what it would be like to kiss them now, tried to remember how it felt in Fornburg, how it felt at the sunken tower. There it had been slight, softly hesitant, perfumed with meadowsweet, painfully brief. Leaning ever so slightly closer, she ran her thumb along Randvi’s lips, slowly, reliving those few fleeting memories.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking about…” she stopped. Randvi’s hand had slid slightly further under her tunic. _I’m thinking about kissing you. I’m thinking about what you would look like with your hair undone and if you’ve got any more freckles on your chest. I’m thinking about everything I want to do with you, everything I’ve done in my dreams since those first days you arrived in Fornburg._ Eivor moved her thumb from Randvi’s lips, across her chin, and down her neck to rest in the hollow between her collarbones. She could feel the swift beat of her heart and her quiet breaths. They were poised at the edge of a very delicate line, and if they crossed Eivor knew there was no going back.

The two of them had been so happy tonight, laughing and drinking with Birna and Tove. She remembered those first few months with Petra, before anything happened, when they used to go out into the woods and hunt and talk about all manner of things. Then they had crossed that line in the abandoned farmhouse, and now… now she didn’t know when she would have the courage to face Petra again. Had that been worth it? Would they be friends again when she returned from Essexe, or had she lost Petra for good? Would she lose Randvi, if she pursued her now?

“What?” She looked up at Eivor, her blue eyes wide with expectation.

“About going to bed. It’s late, jarlskona. Get some rest.” With a rueful sigh, Eivor stood and left for her own chambers, not daring to look back.


	3. alehouse adventures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hytham and randvi go to the pub and complain about their husbands  
> this is a very bromance before romance chapter but there's still a lil lesbian yearning

Eivor had hoped in vain to leave early enough to avoid seeing Randvi, but Birna was still drunk from the night before and Nali had managed to scratch some holes in the sail which needed to be fixed. That damn cat was almost more trouble than she was worth - _almost_. So Randvi had come down the docks to find them all bleary eyed and scrambling, Gudrun shouting at Bragi about the sailcloth, Birna being sick into a bucket, and a whole flurry of stray dogs and children caught up in the early morning excitement. She heard her name called as she loaded the last of the crates into the longship and looked up to see the Jarl’s wife, wrapped in a heavy cloak (Sigurd’s, she thought) against the predawn cold. Her breath came out in little clouds and the tip of her nose was bright red. Somehow she didn’t look much worse for the wear despite having slept for an hour at most. “Thought you could sneak off before the dawn, Wolf-kissed?”

Eivor didn’t look her in the eyes as she picked up another crate to load into the boat. “You should be resting. Didn’t expect to see you so early after last night.”

“I would be, but you forgot something. Come here.” Eivor set down the crate and came up from the docks with some reluctance. Randvi placed a letter in her hands. “The letter from Birstan. You may need it as introduction. Not certain how welcome a fearsome Norse like you will be in Essexe without it… especially with that look on your face.”

“Hm. Don’t worry, I’ll be less fearsome after I’ve had breakfast and some sleep,” she grumbled, stuffing the letter inside her belt. 

“Good. If our ealdorman sees you with that scowl, he’ll shit his trousers,” she laughed. The clasp on her cloak had come undone and it hung slightly off one shoulder. Underneath Eivor could see a sliver of her white linen nightshirt and leggings. Unthinkingly she reached to adjust the cloak on Randvi’s shoulder, deftly pulling it shut and fastening the clasp. The Jarlskona looked momentarily surprised.

“You looked cold,” Eivor muttered, and then turned away and boarded the longship without saying goodbye. Why on earth had she done that? Randvi was perfectly capable of fastening her own cloak. Perhaps last night’s mead hadn’t yet worn off. The swaying of the boat was making her nauseous and her head felt ready to burst. Birna was pulling at an oar, looking irritatingly cheerful despite the early hour. 

“Your scowl’s fiercer than usual, Sunbeam. Something on your mind?” Eivor grumbled and waved her away. “Bragi! Strike up a tune to raise our drengr’s spirits,” Birna called with a cheeky smile. 

Bragi began to tune his instrument, but Eivor silenced him with a glare. “If you play a single note on that lute, Bragi, I will break it over your head and shove it up your arse,” she growled. A full Raven clan chorus might actually split her skull right now. She nestled into the back of the boat, feeling the river breeze on her face. Nali crawled into her lap and began to purr. Between the cat and the creaking of the oars her wild thoughts subsided and she fell deeply asleep.

\---

The maps were a muddle before her eyes, waves of whispering parchment which stubbornly held onto their secrets. Her dawn burst of energy fueled by lingering excitement and drunkenness from the night’s festivities had long since worn off. It had been replaced by a splitting headache and a terrible mood. Randvi fiddled with the clasp on her shoulder, thinking about how Eivor had fastened it so deftly just a few hours earlier. About last night, how she had almost… no, she couldn’t think about that. Eivor had made her feelings abundantly, humiliatingly clear. Last night was a mistake. 

It was a quiet morning with half the raiders gone down to Essexe. She could hear the occasional patter of feet passing through the longhouse, Holger mumbling poetry to himself, the creaking of the big oak outside in the summer breezes. The sunbeam coming through the roof made her pleasantly drowsy and she sat in the corner with a letter in hand. No harm in closing my eyes for a minute, she thought, pushing away a swell of anxiety and guilt. Just for a minute….

“Randvi? Randvi? Oh! Excuse me!” Hytham’s voice called her begrudgingly out of a deep chasm of sleep. The young man was standing awkwardly by her map table as she awoke, wringing his hands. “Forgive me, I did not see that you were – “

“It’s all right, Hytham,” Randvi grumbled, picking up her papers from where they’d fallen on the floor. Gods, how embarrassing. Hopefully she hadn’t been snoring. “What did you want?” The words came out more curtly than she intended. The sunbeam which had sent her to sleep had long since dwindled away and outside the longhouse she could see the golden light of late afternoon.

“I had some matters to discuss with Eivor. Will she be returning soon?”

Everyone always had business with Eivor. “Our drengr is bound for Essexe and not due back for a month or more, I’m afraid.” Hytham looked crestfallen. He reminded her of Ceolbert sometimes, earnest, trusting, and painfully polite. She hoped he might find a better end than that ill-fated boy. “Perhaps you could discuss this matter with me?”

He looked hesitant. “Only if you have the time, I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Nonsense. Out with it, Hytham. I’m no drengr, but I’m capable enough.”

“I need help tracking down one of the members of the order. I believe I have located his sister, an alewife who runs a tavern not far from here. She or one of her clients certainly knows where he is, but I have been unable to gain their trust. These Danes and Saxons, they are accustomed to a boldness which is not in my nature. I was hoping Eivor might be able to…”

“And I’m certain she would, were she here. In the meantime you will have to make do with me.”

“Randvi, are you certain – I know you have much to do here - “ Hytham asked as he scurried out of the war room behind her.

“I am allowed out of the longhouse, you know. And there was a time I was just as wild as any of our Jomsvikings. Now lead the way to this alehouse, and we’ll see what the Saxons have to say.” Perhaps it was rash, but her pride had been pricked by Hytham’s words. Eivor wasn’t the only one who could stir up some trouble. She might be getting older (thirty-five next month, which seemed practically ancient) but she wasn’t going to accept confinement to the war room for the rest of her life.

Hytham seemed visibly uncomfortable in the noisy alehouse. He turned down her offer of mead and sat quietly, fiddling with the blade hidden underneath his sleeve. She could see why he had made little headway with Aelswyth, the alewife, and almost thought of asking him to wait outside. “I can see why you asked for my help, hidden one. You look like a frightened rabbit.”

“As I said, I do not have a bold nature.”

“Surely your calling requires a degree of boldness?”

He shook his head. “We work in the shadows…”

“…. To serve the light. I know, I know. Masters of subterfuge. Yet your master rarely seems out of place.”

“I do not have Basim’s talent with people.”

“Perhaps you simply lack his confidence. Come, I have an idea.” She placed her satchel on the table and started pulling out her set of Orlog pieces. “Saxons and Danes like to drink and gamble. You may not be a drinker, but surely someone in the settlement has taught you Orlog?” He nodded, eyeing the pieces eagerly. The boy had an analytical mind and Randvi guessed he had some talent at the game. “I hope you brought some silver. I won’t be your only challenger tonight.” Some of the alehouse’s patrons were already eyeing the board.

Hytham was an even better player than Randvi had anticipated. They didn’t speak a word during their tournament and before long a few Saxons had gathered around to watch. The spectators made eager comments and suggestions but Randvi was deaf and blind to everything besides the game. It came down to a final round with a single token left on each side. In the end Hytham lost the round and she let out a bated breath. She didn’t have to surrender her pride, not today at least. The jarlskona reached across the table and clasped Hytham’s arm. “You have a few challengers, I think. Try not to lose all your silver. I’m going to get more mead.”

The young man gave her a nervous smile. “Thank you.”

She laughed. “You usually don’t thank your opponent for giving you a pummeling, Hytham.” As she passed him, she leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “Try to find out what you can from these men. It might be easier to glean their secrets while their minds are on the game.”

The young man proved himself a formidable player. Randvi leaned against a pillar as the light faded and watched Saxon after Saxon reluctantly hand over hefty sums of silver to Hytham. He seemed more at ease with his eyes fixed on the dice. She couldn’t hear his words but guessed he had learned what he needed and perhaps even more. The drinkers who had regarded him with suspicion when he first arrived now jockeyed for a place opposite him at the table. There was a tentative grin on his young face and once or twice he even laughed at a comment from his opponent.

It was growing late and Hytham’s challengers were diminishing as the inhabitants of the alehouse grew drunker and rowdier. Best get him out before he lost his advantage. She stepped forward to speak to him, but his next competitor reached him before her. This challenger seemed to rouse some excitement with the onlookers. He was a big, dark-haired man with a crooked smile and battle-scarred face. “The name’s Bertrand,” he growled, reaching across the table to clasp Hytham’s arm. “Time someone showed you how the game is played, little sprout.”

“Bold words for one who has yet to face me.” Randvi smiled at Hytham’s spirit and a couple of the onlookers cheered. The two were soon absorbed by the game. Randvi watched closely. Bertrand was a good player. Each move was carefully considered and swiftly executed. The two men were bent closely over the dice, brows furrowed. The alehouse grew quiet with anticipation.

Suddenly, it was over, with a skillful flourish from Hytham. Bertrand’s face grew stormy, and he slammed his hands upon the table. “You cheat! I’ll not be beaten by a green boy!”

Hytham looked offended, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed. “I’m an honest player, Bertrand.”

He looked likely to turn away and leave his silver, but suddenly turned and pushed the table out of the way. Dice, mead and silver all went flying into the crowd, and Bertrand lifted Hytham out of his seat effortlessly. Some of the onlookers cheered, others turned to their mead-horns, and most scrabbled for the scattered silver. Randvi passed her mead-horn to the man behind her and stepped forward. “Any quarrel with this boy is a quarrel with me. Set him down.”

Bertrand looked at her consideringly and set a shaking Hytham down on the floor. Perhaps years ago he could have handled himself – but he had never recovered from Kjotve’s blow, and Randvi feared he wouldn’t last long in a fight with the other man. “Is this not the Jarlskona of Ravensthorpe? Aye, I’ve heard stories of you.”

Randvi was not in the mood for trading insults. She hurled herself at the large man, landing a punch squarely on his jaw. He didn’t take long to recover and lunged back at her, catching her in her midriff. She felt the blood pounding in her ears, that intoxicating adrenaline which she hadn’t felt since fighting those bandits with Eivor in Grantebridgescire. Letting out a cry, she threw herself against the larger man, knocking him against a table. The fight went one way, and then another. She was deaf to Aelswyth’s cries as they knocked over the mead barrel, grinning and wiping the blood from her split lip. The tavern was cheering, though for which side she wasn’t sure. Bertrand was enormous, but she was quicker. As he swung for her, she rolled under his legs. Standing behind him, she seized a stool and broke it over his head. He collapsed to the floor and she grinned, accepting a mead-horn from one of the drinkers while raising a fist in the air. Her whole body ached but she hadn’t felt so free in a long time. 

Aelswyth chased them out of the alehouse moments afterwards and Randvi found herself leaning on Hytham as they walked home. Gods, it had been too long. Everything hurt. Maybe she _was_ getting old. “Did you get what you needed, sprout?”

“Yes, and much more. Those Saxons let down their guard very easily after a few horns of mead.”

“Good.” He was giving her a very worried look. “Don’t worry about me. I feel better than I have in a long time. I need to get my blood up every once in a while.”

“I know, I just…. If Eivor ever found out I let this happen, she would hang my intestines from the nearest tree.”

Randvi laughed. “Eivor knows I can hold my own. And these bruises will be gone by the time she returns.” Thinking of Eivor brought a sudden sadness. She couldn’t help but think of how the night would have gone with her. They would have drank three times as much and perhaps burned down a few Saxon military camps for good measure. Even if they had just sat in the alehouse and talked quietly, Eivor always made her feel so _alive_. She limped along quietly for a while.

“Randvi? Randvi, pardon me, but it seems there is a shadow over you.” Hytham paused. “Is it Sigurd?”

She laughed involuntarily. In truth she had almost forgotten about her husband. “No, I… forgive me. Sigurd has seemed distant long before he was taken by that fanatic. No, there is just much on my mind.”

“I understand. I found him a hard man to grow close to. Though perhaps that was because Basim…”

“Basim what?” Randvi had no liking for Hytham’s sly mentor. She had barely recognized her husband when he came back with that man in tow.

“I don’t know, exactly. He and Sigurd have a certain closeness. I have often wondered if – but there is no use speculating.” The young man sighed. “Once I thought I knew him well. Now his mind seems fixed on things far beyond the scope of our order, and he moves in secretive ways. I wish he would share his thoughts with me.”

“I wish the same from Sigurd. It is not easy, always being left behind,” she mused. 

“He hardly knows what he has, for if he did, he would not leave it so readily,” Hytham said earnestly, looking at her.

“I might say the same for Basim,” she replied. “But we’ll manage, won’t we?”


	4. a bright, fleeting thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eivor makes friends in essexe and gives some thought to her relationship with randvi

Essexe was far prettier than Eivor had expected, and so was Birstan’s spurned wife. Estrid had greeted her with fiery words and sparking wit, far more than she could say for her useless but well-intentioned husband. The graceful Frankish woman had occupied her thoughts more than a few times as she rode through the woods and along the high sea-cliffs of Essexe. Mostly her mind was on Petra; and once or twice she allowed herself to think of Randvi, how her lips had felt underneath Eivor’s fingers, how alluring she had looked lying on that bed in the longhouse, how her bright laugh and clever words sent tingles down the drengr’s spine. 

She shook her head and tried to clear those impossibly distracting thoughts from her mind. No use fixating on something that wasn’t meant to be. Better to focus on the present, and on how the hell she was going to carry out Estrid’s plan. Kidnapping was one thing; but making a fake kidnapping look real without actually causing any damage was another thing entirely. Then there was Rollo, who seemed young, foolish, and less than reliable. She didn’t quite understand his relationship with Estrid. Certainly she hadn’t been serious about the boy? He was barely out of his teens, spotty and awkward without much of a head for strategy. He looked fine enough now (in a boyish sort of way), standing knee-deep in a river with a spear in his hand. Eivor sat on the bank watching him. He was incredibly still, watching the silver ripples in the river, poised with spear in hand. Apparently he had spent some time in Gwynedd, and the people there had taught him how to hunt for pike with a spear. Eivor still had trouble with the island’s geography beyond Mercia, despite Randvi’s attempts to educate her about Pictland and Gwynedd and Hibernia. 

Finally Rollo plunged his spear into the riverbed, and came up empty-handed with a curse. “You’d have better luck with a bow and arrow,” Eivor laughed. “I think those fishermen in Gwynedd were taking the piss.”

“Tricky bastards,” he huffed. “You want to give it a try?”

“Don’t want to get my trousers wet. Besides, I think you’ve scared away all the pike now.” Rollo was fixed on the river again, shifting his stance slightly. He didn’t seem dissuaded. “Let’s hope you sail better than you fish, eh?”

“My longship is the finest in these waters, and the only one you’ll find to carry Estrid to Francia. Do your part, and I’ll do mine.” He seemed defensive.

“It seems you’re risking much for her. Shouldn’t a young drengr like you be raiding a monastery somewhere? Terrorizing Mercia’s rivers? Drinking alehouses dry?”

“I could ask the same of you, wolf-kissed.”

She smiled ruefully. “I may steer my own ship, Rollo, but I am not my own captain. I answer to my brother and his Jarlskona. They desire that I ally with Essexe, and so for the moment, Estrid’s wish is my command.” She looked at him curiously. “Who do you answer to?”

His back was to her, but his tone was unhappy. “Only myself. And Estrid… for now. This is the last boon I will grant her. I failed her once. I won’t do so again.”

“She holds you in some regard.”

He laughed hollowly. “I doubt that. She lost her respect for me when I failed in that first attempt. We were so close to escaping, unnoticed, but… I became distracted. I let my desires for her blind me. After she was returned to Birstan and my men routed, I never expected to hear from her again.” 

“Well, perhaps this is your chance to win her back.” It was true that Estrid had been on her mind rather frequently; but if Rollo truly cared for her, she was not about to get in his way. He was young, and impulsive, but deserved his chance at happiness. He shifted his stance slightly in the stream, stirring up little eddies of sand around his toes. She could see the pike now, a big grey shape hovering some distance down the stream. It was the master of these waters, and seemed unperturbed by Rollo’s intrusion. 

“That chance has long passed. I was just a brief amusement for her, and Estrid isn’t the type to step in the same river twice. Besides, I think she has bigger things in her sights,” he added, glancing back at Eivor on the riverbank. There was sadness but no bitterness in his tone.

“I see. You think that she – “ Eivor paused for a moment. When she thought about Estrid’s coy smiles and soft remarks, it seemed clear. “Rollo, do you still care for her? I would not pursue her knowing it would bring you grief.”

He smiled. “What use does a drengr like me have for grief? What happened is past and gone. No, all I desire is a horn of ale in one hand, an axe in the other, and a fine woman to warm my bed, Frankish or otherwise.” The young man plunged his spear into the stream again and this time Eivor saw the waters writhe with bright scales before the pike darted away. 

\---

Estrid seemed to enjoy her faked kidnapping slightly too much. She shouted loudly enough for half of Essexe to hear, and managed to summon most of the city’s guards before they had even left the marketplace. At one point Eivor had to drop her unceremoniously into a bale of hay while she fended off a throng of swordsmen, careful not to do too much damage. A couple of broken limbs were unavoidable but Birstan might not have been to pleased had she killed half his guards. Estrid was blessedly silent after that, fine silk dress covered in straw and hair undone. Only when they had escaped the city did she break into giddy laughter. “How thrilling! My goodness, are all Norse women as dreadfully strong as you?”

“Are all Frankish women as loud as you?”, she grumbled. It was difficult to be really angry with her, especially since she had a charming laugh and her lightly perfumed hair was wafting in Eivor’s face in a very distracting way. She could see how Rollo had found it very hard to focus with Estrid around.

“Certainly not! We are all terribly demure, meek, and polite. You can set me down now, you know,” she laughed.

“Do you promise not to cause a ruckus?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” Estrid reassured her as she set her down lightly on the grass. She was a very small, delicate woman who managed to seem regal even covered in hay. There was a mischievous smile which danced across her lips. “Now, did you bring horses, or shall I have to walk all the way to Rollo’s camp?”

“Well, I’ve brought a horse. So as long as you don’t mind riding with me…”

“I don’t think I should mind that at all,” she responded lightly. 

They rode through the dusk to Rollo’s camp, careful to stay off the roads and safely in the cover of the forest. Estrid’s fine hands were clasped gently around her waist, and she could smell her perfume, cloves and something else – cinnamon, perhaps? She wasn’t like the women on Eivor’s longship, or even like Petra or Randvi, who were beautiful but strong and ultimately very practical. She was all silk and rosy cheeks and soft hands, but there was a dauntlessness to her too, a refusal to bow her pretty head to life’s trials. Estrangement from her homeland, two stillborn children, an inattentive husband… it would have cowed a lesser soul. Yet here she was, smiling and laughing with thoughts of Frankia and freedom. “I wonder what Rollo will have to say. He must be quite green with envy. You managed what he could not.”

“He’s entirely smitten with you, you know.”

“Of course he is, the foolish boy. But it was a fleeting thing. He didn’t know what he was doing really.” She paused thoughtfully. “But perhaps you would?”

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean,” Eivor said, knowing exactly what she meant. But it was no bad thing to be desired, and she wanted the moment to last. Let Estrid say directly what she wanted.

“A handsome warrior like you must have a woman, in Ravensthorpe? Or Norway, perhaps?”

Eivor smiled and shook her head. “I did. A huntress, wild and strong-willed and beautiful. But she left me.”

“Hm. What a fool she must be.” They were nearing the camp now, and it seemed Rollo’s men had already broken out the ale and were celebrating. She could see the young leader through the trees, raising an ale horn in his hand and shouting something unintelligible. Better keep an eye on him if she wanted a captain fit for sailing tomorrow. “If you grow tired of all this Dane revelry, Eivor, come find me. I desire your company,” Estrid said softly in her ear. 

\---

“Gods, Estrid, do all Frankish women do… _that_?” They lay underneath a tree some ways from camp, flushed and hot still, legs intertwined underneath a light blanket. It was late - or perhaps very early – and the moon sat brightly on the horizon. Estrid was running her fingers lazily over Eivor’s chest, looking satisfied. 

“You shall have to visit Frankia someday and find out,” she said with a coy smile.

“Now I’m certainly tempted.” Eivor wrapped her fingers in Estrid’s fine hair and pulled her close for a slow kiss. They lingered for a moment, Estrid’s small soft body fitting beautifully against her own. Suddenly the snap of a twig brought her out of the moment and she was frantically scrabbling through her heap of clothes, looking for her axe. Damn, how could she let her guard down? It could be a wolf, or one of Birstan’s guards, or bandits, or –

“Calm down, vikingr, it’s just a deer,” Estrid laughed, putting a soothing hand over hers. Eivor caught a brief glimpse of big ears and doe eyes through the foliage before it bounded away. “You can put away your axe, unless you’re in the mood for hunting.”

“Hm. Can’t be too careful.” She placed her axe back where it laid, and disentangled herself from Estrid, pulling her tunic over her head. It might have just been a deer, but she didn’t want to be caught out in the woods naked as the day she was born. Bad enough if it was bandits, but the endless mockery she would endure from her shipmates was a more frightening prospect. Thank the gods Estrid couldn’t read the runes on her tattoo…

“How fearsome you are!” The Frankish woman drew the blanket around her, covering her radiant skin, and nestled into the roots of the tree. “Come here. You seem tense.”

The moment had put her on edge, but she gladly leaned back against Estrid, resting her head on her chest. Out of the corner of her eye she could still see her axe, which brought her a solid, safe feeling. She could feel gentle fingers stroking her hair, unwinding the leather ties, and disentangling her braids. One by one Estrid took out the metal rings braided into her hair and lay them down on the blanket. She fiddled in her bag for a moment before pulling out a small ivory comb. Starting very gently, she began to tease the knots and the grime and the bits of leaves and grass out of Eivor’s hair. As she worked Eivor felt all the tension seep out of her body. How long had it been since anyone had done this for her? Petra had, a while ago, but they were usually equally filthy, and rarely had a quiet moment together when they weren’t on some adventure or tired to the bone. “This is nice,” she murmured sleepily.

Estrid scoffed. “Good I got to you when I did. It’s like combing out a horse’s mane. There’s a forest’s worth of twigs in here. Is this why your woman left you?”

She snorted. “No, she liked the twigs. She just… I don’t know, exactly. She wanted more. And my heart was unsettled. I desired one that I could not have, and it weighed on me.” It was easy to talk to her, perhaps because she knew that they would never see one another again. She listened quietly, drawing the words out of Eivor as she drew the knots out of her hair. “I don’t know what to do. This other woman, she is…. she is everything to me, and I know she feels the same. Without her I would have lost my way a thousand times. But she is married.”

“So am I. What difference does it make? If she does not love her husband…”

“Her husband is my brother,” Eivor admitted quietly. Estrid stayed silent for a few minutes, working the comb gently through her hair, occasionally stopping to inspect her handiwork. It was a considering silence, not an uncomfortable one.

“Would he understand, if you spoke to him about it?”

“I don’t know. He is a good man but he is… proud. He might be affronted.” Every time she thought of what might be with Randvi, she thought of explaining it to Sigurd, the disappointment, the hurt, the anger. He was not one inclined to forgiveness. And after how he had acted in Oxcenefordscire, she didn’t know what to expect of him. 

“Men ought to have their pride challenged every once in a while. If he is truly a good man, he will understand it is for the best.” She had finished with Eivor’s hair and now slipped her hands underneath her tunic, gently massaging the tension out of her shoulders. Her small hands were surprisingly strong, and Eivor winced once or twice as she worked the knots out of her neck and back. “Life is a bright, fleeting, thing, Eivor. We must bring what joy we can, while we can. Perhaps I will drown on the passage to Frankia, but I will have had this night with you and I will not leave regrets. Perhaps you and your longship will be swallowed by a storm, and perhaps your lady will be taken by sickness. Don’t leave anything unsaid.” She spoke lightly, calmly, and somehow the idea didn’t seem outlandish at all. Her quiet words and careful fingers had teased the anxiety out of her, leaving a pleasant clarity.

“Perhaps you are right. But I do not know how to tell her… after all this time…”

Estrid removed her hands from Eivor’s shoulders to rummage in her bag again. She pulled out a small silver key and pressed it into Eivor’s palm. “This unlocks a chest in my chamber in Colchester. It holds some of my precious things – necklaces, brooches, and the like. You may find something suited to your lady there…. if Birstan hasn’t sold it all off already. Take what you like.”

“This is extremely generous, Estrid. Are you certain?”

“Why not? I have no use for it anymore. I shall only ask for one thing in exchange.”

“Name it.”

Estrid plucked one of the small silver rings Eivor usually braided into her hair from the blanket. “I should like to keep this, to remember a very pleasant evening. And I should like you to kiss me again.”

“That’s two things, but I will happily grant both,” she smiled, turning to kiss Estrid once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like estrid doesn't get enough love, she's just trying to get away from her useless husband and live her best life   
> don't see her and eivor ever being a long term thing but i think they actually have really great chemistry so just wanted to give them some more time together


End file.
